


Adagio

by paintingraves (kallistob)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidents, Confessions, Feelings, Fix-It, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Recovery, Things left unsaid, geralt is soft and sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22388365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/paintingraves
Summary: If Geralt hated him that much, he should have just gotten rid of him sooner. Snapped his neck or something.Witchers don’t feel emotions.Bollocks to that! That one had a lot of feelings, and rather poor ways of dealing with them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 927





	Adagio

**Author's Note:**

> Hello ! i am happy about this fic. i hope you will like it too. unbetaed, english isn't my mothertongue, apologies for any mistakes. 
> 
> Jaskier is growing on me terribly - he is very charming <3

Jaskier is tired. Both physically and mentally. 

He is not as young as he once was! Trekking through some rocky mountains under the scorching heat of the sun to chase a goddamn _dragon_ is fucking exhausting. Not to mention that part where they walked above a chasm on a very narrow wooden trail that broke under their feet. Three of their companions fell to their death, then Geralt nearly followed them, too. 

He couldn’t sleep that night, tossing and turning on the large piece of cloth that he used both as a thin mattress and a blanket. Exhaustion finally pulled him under in the early hours in the morning, just before sunrise. When he woke up, he was alone. Everyone else was gone, and none of them had bothered to shake him awake, which was just inconsiderate. He missed all the action: he had hurried down the path, and stumbled upon the lot of wounded or killed trappers, one of whom, from the smell, had been burnt alive. Jaskier gagged. 

In addition to that gruesome picture, Tea and Vea suddenly made a reappearance, as if he hadn’t watched them _die,_ and it turned out that not only were gold dragons real, but this particular one could talk and turn into a man. Borch. The dragon was Borch Three Jackdaws, the old man, and Geralt's friend. Jaskier had a headache. 

He’d come all this way for nothing, he thought miserably. Days of climbing difficult trails in the name of art, and he hadn’t even seen a battle. He’d have to go around, interrogate people to get enough substance for his ballad, but he really prefered first-hand accounts. 

And then, as if things weren't shitty enough, he had to sit there and witness Yennefer and Geralt get into a heated argument. Yennefer…Well, Yennefer broke the witcher’s heart. And Geralt, in turn, because he was a bullheaded idiot, broke his and pushed him away when Jaskier tried (clumsily, he'll admit) to lighten the mood. 

It wasn’t fair. 

Not for the first time since he’d made the witcher’s acquaintance, Jaskier cursed himself for following him around come rain or shine like a lovesick puppy. 

He couldn’t _help_ it. It’s like, he was fine on his own, managing, but when their paths crossed again then his entire world would reorient itself around Geralt. 

Suddenly, all Jaskier wanted and needed was to be by his side all the time. Everytime, this happened. But of course the witcher wasn’t attuned to him like that. It was a one-sided thing. Geralt led his own life, and sometimes Jaskier just got it in his head to follow along, even if he was unwanted. 

But this time? It was a bit much. He was tired. He didn’t deserve Geralt’s ire. He’d followed him to the end of the world yet again, and gotten nothing in return, yet again! Not a word of gratitude. Only hateful, wrathful words. If Geralt hated him that much, he should have just gotten rid of him sooner. Snapped his neck or something. _Witchers don’t feel emotions_. Ah, bullshit, that. That one had a lot of feelings, and rather poor ways of dealing with them. 

Jaskier had to move on. He really had to. It was time. 

Contrary to Yennefer, or the dwarves, or Borch, he didn’t have magic or wings, nor did he know any shortcuts to go down the mountain faster. He’d have to take the long way, a prospect which didn’t enchant him, especially when he recalled his encounter with the strange, starving beast Sir Eyck had slayed mercilessly the day before. Alone, Jaskier only had a dagger and his lute to defend himself should he come across any more weird creatures. He didn’t fancy meeting any of them, especially since Geralt wasn’t there to protect him. 

This really was a shitty day, and a shitty week, perhaps even a shitty month. Jaskier wrinkled his nose and urged himself on. There was nothing he could do about his current situation, if not walk down the mountain, and find a village as soon as possible. He was wasting daylight with his sad musings. He bypassed their latest camping site, and glanced at the fire remains. If he walked fast (and going down was always quicker than going up), he would be at the foot of the mountain in four or five days. It was… a long time. Jaskier readjusted his bag on his shoulder with a sigh. 

He hoped the gods would be merciful to him during this short journey. What could he do but to go on? 

\-----

The gods were assholes who thought themselves funny. 

The weather had changed. The more Jaskier went down the mountain, the darker it became. This was only his second day of walking; so far so good, but he had a bad feeling about this. The air was heavy, and scents rose from the earth announcing a storm. If it rained, the path would become muddy and slippery; and he would have to stray off them blindly to find shelter for the night (or even during the day, which would delay his progress.) Jaskier observed the skies with increasing worry as large, dark grey clouds gathered above his head the more the hours passed. The wind picked up, and he shivered. He did carry with him in his bag a thin coat with a hood, but it was more like a fashionable cape than anything warm. If the weather kept getting cooler, it would do little to protect him from the chill. And if it rained, he would just get completely soaked. Jaskier still halted, took the bundle from his bag and put it on. If anything, it would give his brain the impression that he covered up. That done, he drank a little from his waterskin, and then kept on walking. 

He hadn’t seen any of their previous traveling companions on the way down yet. Well, the majority of them were dead; and the dwarves had to have taken a shortcut to go back to the king as soon as possible to get their reward. Yennefer must have used a portal. As for Geralt? Well, Jaskier thought rather spitefully, he didn’t know and he didn’t care. Logically speaking, he knew Geralt couldn't cast a portal, so he must have been some way behind Jaskier, unless he decided to head off in the opposite direction. He didn’t _care._ Even if he were following him and taking the same path, there were little chances the witcher would be interested in talking to him. He’d made that very clear. Jaskier could go fuck himself. Well, Geralt of fucking Rivia could also --- 

Thunder rumbled menacingly. 

“Oh no no no no no, don’t you dare --” 

He felt a cold drop of rain on his cheek. Then another. 

Jaskier closed his eyes and accepted his rather shitty fate, stuck on top of a mountain under a storm. 

Gods, why him. He was too old for this. This wasn't funny. He'd be lucky not to catch a cold or worse, pneumonia. 

\----

The wind was howling. Jaskier pulled his coat tightly around him, and cursed some more. He kept his eyes on the path, which was becoming a slippery slope. Rocks rolled under his feet. His hands were frozen. Jaskier squinted through the rain, looking left and right to see if there wasn’t anything resembling a cave, or even a large tree, under which he might seek refuge while he waited by the storm to settle down. Night hadn’t fallen, and wouldn’t for a least a couple more hours, but it was dark. Jaskier kept progressing, and tried not to think about the state his lute would be in, soaked through with water. 

The path he was on was getting even steeper. Jaskier remembered that one climb. It was lengthy, and difficult, and he’d reached the top wheezing, his muscles aching, while Yennefer and Geralt bypassed him looking like their beautiful, unbothered selves, not even having broken a sweat. Life was unfair. 

Going down this particular slope represented a challenge, mostly because Jaskier couldn’t see clearly in front of him. The rain fell as heavy and thick as ropes. He started a slow descent, reasoning that even if he did slip, the worst that could happen was him falling down on his arse and getting covered in mud. Unpleasant, but he’d had worse. He was making good progress. He bumped into a stone, stumbled, but managed to right himself. He realized it was easier not to try to halt his descent by bending his knees and straining his muscles so hard, when he could instead try to jog and let the momentum carry him to the end of the slope faster. He wasn’t as agile as in his youthful days, but he thought he could do it. He surely would have tried if the weather was better. Right now, he couldn’t see or hear shit. His hair was plastered to his forehead. He was soaked to the bone, and fucking cold. Fucking Geralt and fucking Yennefer and their fucking dragons --

Lightning burst through the skies, startling him, and a loud rumble of thunder followed soon after. 

When he was a kid, he used to be afraid of thunder. To soothe him, his mother had humanized the two; thunder and lightning, making up a story about how Thunder was a deity chasing her misbehaving child, Lightning, who always ran away to play prank on humans. It had made Jaskier giggle, and reminded him of how his mom would scold him or his brother sometimes, and it made the storm less frightening. Jaskier would look at Lightning through the window, wave at it, and whisper that pranks were funny and that he supported him. 

He smiles at the memory. He is almost at the end of the slope, and nothing bad happened. From what he remembers, what follows is a rather scary looking (but fortunately short) defile up the side of the mountain, right next to a precipice. Then they get back to safer grounds, with large trails and more trees, and then further down, there are actual fields. 

Alright. Nothing complicated. Jaskier makes it to the end. He breathes deeply, and looks back at the precipitous slope. Lightning flashes in the sky. At the top, the darkened silhouette of a man detaches itself from the clouds. He is unmoving, yet Jaskier gets the certain feeling that he is looking right at him. His heart skips a beat. He shivers in fear, then looks away. Even from this distance, under this weather, he can recognize the Witcher. 

So he was right after all. 

The man is following him, though he keeps his distance. There’s probably only one way down the mountain. No matter. Jaskier pulls his hood up over his head to shut the distressing vision out. He walks straight ahead, trying to find the trail near the mountain’s edge. It is narrower than he remembers, but nowhere near as bad as what the dwarves put them through. There is nothing to hold onto though. Jaskier supposes not many people come walking in these mountains for fun. He engages himself in the defile, nearly skimming the rock to his right. The chasm to his left is really rather terrifying. Jaskier swallows. He very carefully does not go near the edge or look down. The sight of the precipice had his legs trembling like those of a newborn foal when they first arrived here. He doesn’t need the reminder. 

He is more exposed to the elements than before. Jaskier is forced to squint his eyes against the heavy rain, and the wind howls so bad he feels like the mountain’s trembling with it. He has a… bad feeling about this, one he probably shouldn't ignore. Jaskier eyes the path in front of him with worry, then he remembers Geralt’s foreboding shadow. With determination but on unsure feet, Jaskier continues at a snail’s pace. The rain hits his face as though Jaskier had personally offended it. A stronger gust of wind pushes him in the back and brings him closer to the precipice. He scrambles at the rock to catch himself and finds nothing. 

“Holy shit,” Jaskier says, his heart going wild like a rabbit being chased. “Oooh gods. This is a bad idea, it’s a bad idea…” 

Night will start to fall. Jaskier can’t just stay here, paralyzed on this cliff; he has to move forward or go back. But behind him, there’s Geralt. His teeth chattering, Jaskier keeps going. He is freezing, and exhausted, and the rain just won’t fucking stop. Once he reaches the village, Jaskier promises himself furiously, he’ll stay at an inn for however long as he god damn pleases, and then he’ll head towards Oxenfurt or Novigrad, cities where _comfort_ and _wellbeing_ actually have meaning. He'll get a steady job - he can teach at Oxenfurt again - and write more songs. He'll go to cities where people are actually glad to see him, cities where he’s acquired a good reputation, and where he isn’t being shat on by people he considered his friends. 

He doesn’t see the stone coming. He doesn’t hear it either, with the rumbling of thunder. One moment he is walking; the next there is a sudden, dull pain in his left shoulder and his neck. Jaskier crumbles under the weight of what hit him, the breath knocked out of him. Shock makes his ears ring; he doesn’t quite understand what just happened. The boulder continues its course and falls down the precipice. Jaskier, on his knees on the stone path, holds his shoulder, dazed.

What the fuck? 

Distantly, vaguely, he remembers that a rock falling down the side of a mountain usually means even more rocks falling down the side of a mountain. Right now, that doesn’t seem important. He looks at the cliff, and sees nothing. Fuck, but that rock was huge. Jaskier pales at the thought that it could have fallen on his head instead. He would have been instantly knocked out. He whines as he presses down where it hurts. He expect he’ll have a hell of a bruise.

The bard sniffles and wipes his eyes. Seriously, he can stay rational and optimistic all you want, but this is a bit much even for him. That was fucking gratuitous. What did he do to deserve a natural stoning, eh? What a fucking shit day. 

On wobbly feet, Jaskier slowly rises up. It’s just a bruise, he rationalizes. It hurts like a bitch, but it’ll pass. He hears a rumble. He freezes. At his feet, a tiny rock trembles. Jaskier stares at it, stupidly. 

“Jaskier!” He hears someone roar. 

A blow lands on the back of his head. His world explodes. He sees stars. He staggers. He gets closer to the edge, the precipice. 

The wind is howling. 

He falls. 

Lands on his back. There’s a sharp pain in his skull, and a loud crack. Broken bones. He blinks, his body rigid with shock. 

Above him, he sees a dark silhouette, standing in the place he's just fallen from. Deliriously, Jaskier thinks it's Death, coming for him. 

He can’t move. The rain falls softly on his face. He can’t move. 

He can barely breathe. 

It is agony. 

\---------

As if in a dream, Geralt _sees_ the boulder barreling down the mountain slope. 

It’s going to hit Jaskier. 

Fuck, it’s going to hit Jaskier - why won’t the man move?! Geralt yells a warning, but the sound gets lost in the wind. He grits his teeth and hurries down the precipitous slope, keeping his eyes on the bard's frail silhouette ahead of him. “Jaskier! GET BACK!” He roars. 

Jaskier doesn’t. Geralt is struck speechless with horror, his mad run abruptly stopped by the nightmarish vision of the heavy rock hitting Jaskier's head. The man’s whole body bends under its weight. He stumbles sideways. His body tips into the merciless abyss. Jaskier falls. 

“No,” Geralt says, terrified. “No, no, no…” His body starts moving on its own. Geralt's mind replays again and again that image of Jaskier falling to his death. 

He can’t be dead. He’s not. He won’t be. He’s not. He’s not. He’s not. He’s not! 

Geralt has never run so fast in his life. 

He hurtles down the steep slope, skipping about to go faster. The force of the wind slows him down; he resists it, and curses at the angry sky. He finally reaches the edge of the precipice, where Jaskier has fallen. He has to look down. He has to see him with his own two eyes. He has to… 

(Jaskier’s not dead. He can’t be. He can't.) 

Geralt dares to look. 

What he sees is not what he expected, and it fills him both with dread and hope : Jaskier’s fall was halted by a large, flat rock protruding from the mountain. And he isn’t far; the distance between him is Geralt is perhaps 4 or 5 meters high. Geralt can see his eyes, open and pleading. He is in a world of pain. He'll pass out soon. The witcher can jump down to reach him, and although climbing back up with him on his back will be difficult, it is doable - thanks to his potions. But Jaskier’s injuries worry him. He fell on his back. His left leg is bent at an odd angle, and there is a little pool of blood beneath his head. If he doesn’t act _very_ quickly, Jaskier will die. 

(He should be dead already. It is a miracle that he isn’t. Geralt can’t leave him here. Jaskier must live.) 

Geralt takes a short run-up and jumps. He lands heavily on the rock next to Jaskier, exhaling as the impact rattles through his bones. He is glad, for once, that he is more than a human being. A common man would have seen Jaskier as a lost cause, would have prayed for him and left him to die here. Jaskier deserves better. 

The injured man whimpers weakly, his eyes following Geralt. The witcher rummages in his bag, looking for his vials of potions. They’re not meant for human beings, but they could make a difference between Jaskier surviving until they make it to a healer’s, or dying in his arms. He kneels down next to him. Geralt’s heart is beating faster than normal. He is thinking quickly. He gently touches Jaskier’s head, and the man whimpers again. “Sssh,” Geralt says. “I’m here, Jaskier. Stay with me. You’ll be alright.” 

Geralt uncorks the bottle with his teeth and brings the healing potion to Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier closes his eyes and swallows it down, trusting Geralt blindly. “Fuck. I’ll get you out of here, Jaskier. You never should have accompanied me here. It was too dangerous.” 

Jaskier whines and passes out. 

“Okay," Geralt breathes. "Now for the hard part… It is probably better if you’re unconscious for this.” Jaskier spasms. “That’s the potion. I’m sorry. But it should buy you a few hours.” He opens his mouth on a silent scream. Jaskier arches his back and Geralt hears a loud crack. Bile rises in the back of his throat, and the witcher looks away. “Fuck.” 

He needs to move Jaskier. This is going to _hurt_. Geralt keeps us a litany of meaningless apologies as he slowly, very slowly, takes Jaskier in his arms - a hand supporting his neck and the other his legs, like a broken bride. Jaskier’s eyes roll back in his head, and all Geralt can see is white. He is limp, unmoving, as lifeless as a doll, as pale as porcelain. But Geralt can hear his breathing, as painful and laboured as it is, and he can hear his heartbeat - fast and desperate. He makes little pained noises whenever Geralt moves him. He hates hearing them. 

Geralt grits his teeth and rearranges Jaskier over his shoulder, preparing to climb the mountain one handed. It is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do - Jaskier’s death rattles are a haunting melody in his ears. But mercifully, the raging storm has settled down a bit; the witcher makes it to the top, finding the narrowed path again. He doesn't take time to rest. 

He only has one thing on his mind : run and get Jaskier to a healer, a mage, even an apothecary, anyone who could help him. He searches his bag for a potion, uncorks it with his teeth again, and downs it. It is the one he usually takes before fighting a monster - something to enhance his strength, his senses, and smother any hunger or tiredness he might feel. For he is fighting the worst monsters - Time, and Death itself, all too eager to feast on his friend. Geralt refuses to let that happen. 

He runs. Every second that slips away is precious. He doesn’t know if he’ll make it back before Jaskier succumbs to his injuries, but he’ll damn well try. 

\-----------

It is the pain that wakes Jaskier up. 

Fire runs up his legs. He is burning, boiling alive. His skull is pounding. He wants to escape it, but he can’t lift a finger. Nor can he make sense of what happened. He opens his eyes. The room he's in is dark and unfamiliar, lit by candles. Jaskier turns his head slowly to the right, breathing with difficulty, panicking. He is lying in a bed. There is someone in a chair at his bedside. Jaskier can make out white hair, and a heavy bulk. _Geralt_ , his brain supplies. 

Geralt is sleeping. 

Jaskier looks at him. Is he dead after all? Surely paradise can't be so painful. Hell, then. 

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep again. 

\---

“His fever’s died down. His leg’s is healing well. The severity of his head injury will need to be assessed once he’s awake, and able to communicate. You should know, Geralt, that your bard is very lucky to be alive at all. And he was lucky, too, in his fall. He could have lost his legs. I don’t believe that’s the case. He reacted when I did his splint. Once again, I’ve done the best I can. He may have lost some sensation in his arms, but we can’t know for sure until he’s better. He’ll be alright.” 

“... Thank you. For everything.” 

“You should get some rest too. You’ve been at his side almost constantly, day and night. He is out of danger, but you’re exhausted. Get out, Geralt. Do something else. Go to the inn, eat a bite, drink something - but no ale. Get some air. Take care of Roach - she must be missing you. Jaskier will still be there when you get back.” 

“... Why did he follow me? Why does he _always_ follow me?” 

“That’s a question you’ll have to ask him yourself.” 

“I need to apologize to him. I… I want to be better. He is a great man.” 

“You risked a lot to bring him here, Geralt. The things you need to settle down with him will have to wait until he has healed a bit. But I have no doubts he is very thankful to you. You saved his life.” 

“I pushed him away! If I hadn’t been such an asshole, he would have stayed with me, and none of this would have happened.” 

“But it did, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Eating yourself up with guilt won’t help you,” Visenna says. “Now go.” 

\--------

Time passes. Geralt waits, and hopes. 

\---- 

Jaskier is silent. 

He is awake, propped up on pillows in the bed. There is a bandage around his head that messes up his hair and cuts across his forehead. It must be terribly itchy. The rest of his body is covered by a sheet; and there is a tray on his lap, with a steaming bowl of broth. 

Jaskier brings the wooden spoon to his lips. He slurps down the beverage. He stares at Geralt, the whole time, without saying anything. The witcher is getting progressively more uncomfortable by the second. At least Jaskier is eating on his own. He can hold a spoon. That’s good, right? 

But a silent Jaskier is like an aberration of nature. 

Geralt stands in the room awkwardly, clenching and unclenching his fists, waiting for Jaskier to open his mouth. It is not the first time the bard is awake; but, while he does speak to Visenna, whenever Geralt is in the same room, he remains eerily quiet.

What is he waiting for? An apology?! Geralt opens his mouth, but no words come out. He paces the room. Stops. Looks at Jaskier, who is halfway done with his bowl of soup. Opens his mouth again. Closes it. 

“Jaskier,” he finally says, frustrated. He doesn't know how to do this. Jaskier does. 

The bard slurps louder. 

“Jaskier, please.” 

“It’s a good soup,” Jaskier says. He sighs. “And you, Geralt of Rivia, are a fucking idiot.” 

Geralt nods, his heart hammering in his chest. The relief he feels is dizzying. “I’m so sorry." 

“I know you are.” Jaskier pushes the tray away. He crosses his hands over his lap. 

He still looks weak, and small, with dark bruises under his eyes - his night are restless. He can't sleep because of the pain and the sheer discomfort of being forced to stay immobile. Yet his voice carries out to where Geralt stands ; the witcher feels as sheepish as a scolded child. He wants to shrink, like his body is too big for his heart. It is a weird feeling. “I don’t think I can stay mad as you, Geralt. You saved my life.” The corners of his lips pull down. He looks furious. "Why?" 

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats, licking his lips. He is struggling, feeling too many things at once, things he doesn't know how to deal with. The familiar anger is there, ready to squash all of them, but he doesn’t need it now. Not when it’s what got them into this mess in the first place. No, right now he needs honesty, and compassion, and to show _vulnerability_ \- the strength it takes to recognize his wrongdoings and shitty behavior. “I am sorry,” he insists. “You’re not responsible for my shitty decisions, or that bitch of a Destiny. I was furious at myself. I lashed out at you. You were just there. Wrong place, wrong time. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier asks. “Don’t lie to me. I don’t think you were completely dishonest either. I’m fine now, Geralt. And indebted to you, for saving my life. You can go on your merry way. Your destiny, that little girl - she is waiting for you. I’ll only slow you down.” 

Geralt goes to Jaskier’s bedside. Jaskier has to understand. The man in question squeaks and grips the bedcover, bringing it higher up on his chest, as though to protect himself from Geralt. The witcher scowls. He takes the tray off Jaskier’s lap, puts it down on the floor. Then he kneels next to the bed, and grabs Jaskier’s hand. He squeezes. “I’m not going anywhere without you. Ever. Again. I've had time to think. It's been… Weeks. I was sure you were going to die. I…" He takes a deep breath. "You’re my friend, Jaskier. And I’m a rather shitty one to you, but I _promise_ to do better. You can't push me away now out of some sense of preservation - I’ll try to do better. Please. I don’t have many friends. I have acquaintances, and lovers, but I don’t trust any of them. I trust _you,_ Jaskier,” he begs. 

Jaskier looks… stunned. 

The corner of his lip twitches, as if he’s fighting a smile. “Are you actually a doppler impersonating Geralt of Rivia? I didn’t think you were capable of speaking in long sentences, or give such a heartfelt speech.” Geralt hums, embarrassed. Heat rises to his face. He looks away. “Ah, there you are.” 

"Jaskier," Geralt says helplessly. There he is. 

They stay silent for a minute. 

“I’ll come with you,” Jaskier finally says. “Once I’m better. I always do. But, Geralt… I don’t need this to become a pattern. I’m forty years old. I’m getting old, and I’m tired. I have lived a lot, and I didn’t expect to survive this particular fall. For me, this was the end. I accepted that. And if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have survived. You did the impossible. So when things go back to normal, you can’t just… Use me as a verbal punching bag whenever you don’t know how to process normal things like emotions, and then regret it the second I’m in danger. You do that a lot. I don’t appreciate it.” 

“... I’m sorry,” Geralt says quietly, shamed. Jaskier’s right. This is not the first time this happened. But it was their worst fight yet. “I will try. I care about you, bard.” 

“Lucky me,” Jaskier chuckles, then coughs. Geralt lays a hand on his back to support him until the fit has passed. “Fuck. Son of a bitch, that hurt.” 

“I'll ask Visenna to bring you more numbing herbs." 

"Thanks."

"I'm glad you feel pain. It means you’re alive.” 

Jaskier glances sideways at him, warily. There is the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I hate you, you know,” he says. 

Geralt smiles at him, feeling stupidly light. 

“I do know.” 

\-----

**Author's Note:**

> once a tree branch fell on me as i was walking in the forest and it hurt like a bitch. anyway !!! 
> 
> i really hope you liked this fic. if so, toss a comment to your writer, o' valley of fix-it fics, etc <3


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